


Arboreal

by misura



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It probably says something about Oliver's general state of mind that the second thing he thinks when his ankle gives way is: <i>Slade's going to be pissed</i> (the first thing being <i>shit!</i>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arboreal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> have a quick and not-that-dirty Oliver/Slade treat set in the third quarter of the first season?
> 
> (okay, so it's a little bit dirty.)

It probably says something about Oliver's general state of mind that the second thing he thinks when his ankle gives way is: _Slade's going to be pissed_ (the first thing being _shit!_ ).

His third thought is that it really, really hurts - his fourth that he's been through worse, for God's sake, he's been fucking _tortured_ , all right, by a guy cutting pieces out of him with a knife; what's a (probably) sprained ankle compared to that?

(The answer, apparently, is: still damn painful.)

He doesn't yell. He's not stupid enough to think that might favorably impress Slade or anything (fine, he is - he can't help himself, it's just as if the more Slade puts him down, the more Oliver wants to impress the son of a bitch. Or throttle him, on occasion, but Oliver figures the odds of his ever getting the chance to do _that_ are even slimmer than those of Slade ever giving him a compliment.)

He does make some sound, of course. It sounds a bit like a squeak.

Slade turns, looking annoyed and grouchy. It's his default expression, so Oliver tries not to take it personally. "My ankle," he says. Pants, more or less.

(The thing about getting tortured is: the ability to enunciate clearly is not a concern for the victim.)

"Sprained or broken?" Slade says, all business and frowning as he looks around - for some sort of trap, Oliver dimly realizes, some sort of sign that this isn't a dumb accident.

 _I'm supposed to feel the difference?_ Oliver manages not to ask. For all he know, part of Slade's training involved a class on the subject. "Don't know," he says, which gets Slade to look grouchier, so he adds a: "Sprained, I think," on the consideration that he's got a 50/50 chance of being right.

Survey completed, Slade kneels down, reaching for Oliver's ankle. Oliver braces himself, considers the pros and cons of biting off his own tongue, then realizes that it doesn't actually hurt.

Well, that is to say: having Slade's hands on his ankle doesn't make the damn thing hurt _worse_. They're a bit rough, but warm. Comfortable, almost.

(There have been medical professionals in Oliver's past, and none of them have ever asked him: _does it hurt when I do this?_ without the answer being a resounding _yes!_.)

"Good guess." Slade straightens.

They're fifteen, maybe twenty minutes away from the plane, although that's measured by Slade speed, not Oliver-with-a-crutch speed. It's afternoon, with (Oliver thinks) several hours of daylight remaining.

If Slade helps him and if they get lucky, they should be able to make it.

Oliver says nothing. _Everyone's out for themselves._ Slade's own words, spoken not so very long ago.

"If you're quite done feeling sorry for yourself, maybe we could get a move on?" Slade says.

 

They almost make it - or so it feels to Oliver. It's slow going, with Oliver barely being able to walk, even with Slade's help, and Slade stopping every once in a while to cover their tracks, after.

It feels like they've been going at it for close to an hour when they (well, Slade) first hear the sounds of a patrol approaching. Voices - and thank God for the human urge to talk, because Oliver's not sure how well even Slade would have done against a full patrol, with Oliver as dead weight hanging on his arm.

"Up," Slade says, and Oliver's first reaction is to simply stare at him, uncomprehending.

They're in a forest, nowhere near the shore and the caves. Thus, when Slade says 'up', he probably doesn't mean they need to get to higher ground. He means -

"No," Oliver says.

Slade shoves him against a tree. It's a nice, thick, solid tree. "Not a question."

"I _can't_." Slade could, probably. Yao Fei, too, most likely. He's just Oliver Queen, though.

"Less whining, more climbing."

"Just - " Oliver says, which is when Slade grunts and -

 

"Careful."

"What - " Oliver moves - not particularly carefully, it must be said, then realizes where he is.

It takes about five minutes to convince his stomach that, really, abandoning ship now is not the answer. Terrible idea, in fact, almost as bad as knocking a guy with a sprained ankle unconscious and then dragging him up a Goddamn tree.

A nearby branch snaps and falls down. Slade looks annoyed and grouchy. Oliver tries to focus on that, on Slade, being right there.

"Best hope nobody heard that."

"Sorry," Oliver says, for all that apologizing to Slade has never done him any good.

"My bad," Slade says. "Should've tied you up or something."

Slade being Slade, he probably does carry rope for exactly that purpose with him. (Well, for tying people up in general, that is. Not Oliver in particular, Oliver hopes.) "Yeah. I think I'm kind of glad you didn't."

Slade grunts. "How's the ankle?"

 _Almost forgotten, until you had to bring it up,_ Oliver thinks. "I'll live," he says, out loud.

"Optimist."

Oliver tries to think of something clever and funny to say back, but in the end, he settles for: "How long are we going to stay up here?"

"Couple of hours more, I reckon. Better safe than sorry."

"Yeah." It's been a long time since Oliver has felt completely safe. Waking up to the sound of Slade breathing in and out helps a bit - not feeling like he's all alone helps a bit, but, well, on the topic of not being alone, there's Fyers, too, and his army of goons.

Slade is tough, but he can't take on a whole army.

"Bored?"

Oliver considers the question. "I guess it should feel nicer to not have you trying to beat me up for a while."

"Trying?" Slade scoffs.

"I guess they train you guys not to get bored, huh?"

"Well." Slade keeps quiet for a few moments. "It's easier if you've got company."

"Please don't tell me you want to play a kid's game, like charades or something." If he'd been on the good kind of painkillers, Oliver supposes he might have found the idea hilarious.

"I was thinking more of something like: I suck your dick, you _don't_ fall down," Slade says.

"Yeah." Oliver's mouth is a little dry. "Definitely not a kid's game, huh?"

"I should hope not," Slade says. Oliver's never really allowed himself to think of Slade's voice as 'sexy' before. It probably helped that Slade's not really in the habit of making these sorts of offers.

He wonders if Slade expects them to die very shortly, or if it's just that Slade really is pretty bored himself. (He doesn't wonder if Slade actually can give him a blowjob while they're stuck in a tree.)

"I uh I'm flattered. Obviously."

"You mean no, just say no, kid. I'm not going to jump you while you're sleeping or something."

"I'm ... not saying no."

"Well, then, what _are_ you saying? You want to sleep on it?"

There are bruises all over his body - several fresh ones, most likely, after Slade's dragged him up here. His ankle's sprained. A small army of sadistic mercenaries is looking for him. His only hope of surviving long enough to get off this island lies in somehow turning into someone who's capable of keeping up with a guy who's in the Australian Special Forces, whose partner has joined up with the bad guys.

Oh, and he's in a tree. Not exactly the ideal circumstances to get up, close and sexual with someone.

"I'm saying 'yes'."

 

Oliver's had blowjobs before - from women, usually, either a little less or a bit more drunk than he was himself, at the time. Never quite as good as real sex, but okay for when you don't feel like getting up.

Slade is ... not a woman. His mouth is hot and wet and it's _good_. Slade doesn't go slow, like he's not sure if he really wants Oliver's dick in his mouth - he makes it very clear that he does. That he _likes_ having it there.

When Oliver comes, it's hard and fast and very nearly enough to make him forget where he is.

 

The trip back to the plane is a bit of a blur - it's half-dark, and Oliver's not sure how Slade can tell there aren't any patrols around, except that it appears Slade can, so he figures it's not worth worrying about.

"Gonna be laid up for a few days," Slade says, once they're back and he's had a second look at Oliver's ankle. "Could be worse."

"Yeah. I could be dead."

"Don't be such a drama queen," Slade says.

Oliver's been 'laid up' before, in a proper hospital, with doctors and nurses and actual painkillers available to him 24/7. It didn't feel even remotely like this.

"Was that a pun?"

Slade looks mystified and maybe like he's not entirely convinced of Oliver's sanity.

"My last name," Oliver says.

"Just get some sleep," Slade says.

It sounds like good advice. "I'll probably get pretty bored, lying here all day with nothing to do."

"Your problem, Queen. Nothing to do with me."


End file.
